My son was autistic, and he suffered from seizure disorder every 5 to 10 days. He would suffer a seizure that would last 45 seconds to a minute and sleep for 12 hours.

I called my son Jett and I wanted to call my daughter Qantas but my wife wouldn't let me.

I can change a No. 1 diaper in 30 seconds and a No. 2 in a minute.

And all day long, it was hard not to walk around, thinking about the lastness of it all: The last time I stand in a circle outside the band room in the shade of this oak tree that has protected generations of band geeks. The last time I eat pizza in the cafeteria with Ben. The last time I sit in this school scrawling an essay with a cramped hand into a blue boo. The last time I glance up at the clock. The last time I see Chuck Parson prowling the halls, his smile half a sneer. God. I was becoming nostalgic for Chuck Parson. Something sick was happening inside of me.

They said it lasted 15 seconds. It was hours.

Every passing second and minute of your life matter because they make up hours and your life